


30 Pieces of Silver

by kitthekatz98



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28796673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitthekatz98/pseuds/kitthekatz98
Summary: A woman emerges from beneath the waterfall. Only her deep blue eyes are visible above the waterline, fixed on his own. Her long brown hair floats on the surface fanned around her like a strange halo. Water, or maybe blood, roars in his ears as he stands and sheaths his sword. Languidly, the Fey Queen approaches him, approaches the shore. He turns his hooded face from her slowly. Her gown, once white, clings to her body.“Judas,” she intones. “Have you come to be baptized?”
Relationships: Nimue & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	30 Pieces of Silver

The monk crouches on the rocky shore of the lake, his fingers curled around the hilt of the Sword of Power. Blood slowly drips from the weapon and permeates the water, curling in tendrils before being swept away by the gentle current. The monk wipes the blade once, twice, and then balances it on his knees while he wrings out his soiled cloth. Birds chirp joyfully in the trees above him and fly close to the small nearby waterfall, collecting mist on their dark feathers. The Monk feels anticipatory as he inhales and lifts his face, closing his eyes against the radiant sun. When he opens them again, he notices movement in his periphery. 

A woman emerges from beneath the waterfall. Only her deep blue eyes are visible above the waterline, fixed on his own. Her long brown hair floats on the surface fanned around her like a strange halo. Water, or maybe blood, roars in his ears as he stands and sheaths his sword. Languidly, the Fey Queen approaches him, approaches the shore. He turns his hooded face from her slowly. Her gown, once white, clings to her body. He closes his eyes and breathes once shakily through his nose, trying not to envision the way water droplets pursue one another down her neck and between her breasts. 

“Judas,” she intones. “Have you come to be baptized?” He is drawn to her. Compelled, yet he stays his place. “Judas,” she beckons. He grits his teeth and looks upon her once more. She extends her hands to him pulling him forward. He involuntarily takes one step into the water, barely feeling it wet his ankles. She observes him intently, her lips pulled up in an inviting smile. He takes another. And another, until he is waist deep in the spring, a mere breath away. Her lips part in a dazzling smile. Warning bells sound in his head, but his feet feel leaden, his will to retreat nonexistent. She moves closer still and gazes up at him, almost adoringly. Tenderly, she pushes the hood from his ash-painted face and runs her hands up his chest and around his neck to play in the hair at its nape. Her smile drops as she looks from his eyes to his lips, and back again. “Judas,” she says again, but it’s a whisper, a breath. One of his hands instinctively rises to her waist and the other softly curls around her wrist as her fingertips glide down his cheek. He feels a deep, deep, incredible sadness. It has been an eternity since someone has shown him this tenderness. His eyes start to burn at the passing thought, and his strong body starts to quiver. She smiles sympathetically at him and rises on her toes to press her lips to his. He awaits a wave of revulsion, but it never comes. Instead he feels… at peace. Their kiss lasts only a moment. 

He feels her eyes flutter open but dares not look. The monk leans closer and finds her lips again. He’s never been kissed before but now understands why men are tempted so. She breathes his name, that is not his name, Judas, and leads him deeper, and deeper into the lake until he feels the enticing spray of the waterfall. As they pass under it, the water turns to silk and she pulls him through drapes into a candle-lit room. As their kisses intensify, the flames in the candles around them seem to grow along with the heat in the Monk’s stomach. He yearns for this girl’s love. For her touch. His mind is emptied of pain, of conflict, of religion as she undresses herself. He only wants to worship her body, to kneel at her feet, and so he does. He runs his hands up the sides of her legs to her waist and back down to the soft skin of her inner thighs. 

He is about to press a kiss there when he feels a sudden sharp pain. A different heat burns from the center of his back. He grunts and reaches to find the source. His fingers trace over remarkably smooth skin, skin that should be covered in scar tissue from years of self-scourging. His fingers fumble over the hilt of a dagger. He tastes metal as blood bubbles to his lips. He looks up at the girl, questioning, but she’s gone, replaced with a man with a white beard and cold eyes. Panic grips the Monk’s throat as the priest frowns down on him. The priest caresses the hilt of the Sword of Power, his voice burns like the knife in the Monk’s back, “Why have you betrayed me, Son?” 

The Weeping Monk wakes with a start, scurrying back in the leaves until he remembers. Instinctively, he glances to where Percival sleeps in the protective arms of Nimue. She watches him, the flames of their campfire reflecting in her eyes. She does not look at him with the same hate she had days ago, but it is still a stark difference from how she looked at him in his dream. There is not a trace of adoration now. He is certainly not forgiven by her. As he settles back on his bedroll, he tries to forget the way she held him. The way her lips tasted. He would reunite the boy and his queen with their people. After that he would likely return to the woods to succumb to his injuries. 

He hesitates, momentarily, to turn his back to the fey queen, to make himself vulnerable. Nimue smooths Percival’s hair like a doting mother, “Sleep, Monk,” she says, as if she knows his thoughts. He turns away from her, to lie on his shoulder. “Lancelot,” She corrects so quietly he almost does not hear. He shuts his eyes tightly and prays for salvation.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know if you want a companion piece featuring one of Nimue's dreams. Best wishes.


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